


Falling Like Lucifer

by Historical_Muse



Category: LOTR RPS
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, prompt: "pride"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just a little crush...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Like Lucifer

It’s a hot, drowsy, sultry day in Wellington.

_The kind of day when you don’t want to move and all you can do is sweat and feel glad that you don’t have to go into work for another twenty-four hours._

Settled comfortably in his kitchen, Andy yawns and scratches and pads barefoot to the refrigerator and takes out another can of Stella Artois.  He knows alcohol isn’t necessarily the best way to lower his temperature, what with all that opening of blood vessels so that the blood thunders around your body more effectively and comes closer to the skin surface to be cooled down, thereby making you feel drowsier than ever.  But the air-con unit is out of action until the repairman can come in tomorrow and at least the damp, icy chill of the refrigerated can will feel nice and refreshing as it soothes his hot skin while he dozes half-heartedly in his chair.

He loops his fingers around the top of the can and pulls the ring, hearing the satisfying “czshlock” as it peels back and the smell of ice-cold lager hits his nose.  He takes greedy gulps as he ambles back to the wooden rocking chair and settles himself down once more; the cold lager numbs his throat in an icy caress as it slides down his gullet like nectar, washing away the dust and momentarily taking the edge off the heat.

Andy reasons that he should be used to such extremities of heat, having seen the Lebanon, Damascus, Baghdad and most of the Middle East by the time he was ten years old – but somehow it was different back then.  Perhaps you _didn’t_ notice heat so much when you were a kid – or maybe it was having spent the past quarter-century growing up in the land of his birth, getting accustomed to the more temperate and temperamental English climate.

He stretches out a toe and switches the oscillating fan up a notch, sending more cold air up over his feet and lap and chest and face, blowing soft chills through the holes in his scruffy jeans and sleeveless top and across his bare arms, neck and face, ruffling and tickling the thick spray of hair on his chest in a very pleasurable fashion.  Taking another swig of lager he pushes his hand through the remains of his mop of black curls, relieved that he’d recently had them cropped after one too many comments from Dom along the lines of how Andy’s hair was getting so long and wild that there’d soon be enough with which to stuff a small cushion.  “An entire duvet, more like,” Billy had shot back, grinning impishly at Andy and daring him to take offence.

Which he hadn’t, of course – taking offence at _anything_ Billy said was pointless, since the genial young Scot could be as guileless as a child and never made cheeky comments to anyone but those he liked.

But now _Andy’s_ had the last laugh, with no unruly hair sweeping the back of his neck and behind his ears and across his forehead and Billy and Dom now sweltering under their hobbit wigs as the temperatures continued to soar in this mini heat-wave.  Andy grins to himself somewhat wryly as he feels sweat begin to gather in the hairs at the top of his neck.  Well, it could be worse; he could be stuck back at home in England – unemployed, bored, miserable, and feeling unspeakably jealous of his partner Lorraine for being in work, even though he adores and loves her to bits.

A brisk rat-tatting on the front door has Andy wondering how someone _can_ be so energetic on such a sweltering hot day as this; but he peels himself out of his chair and ambles amiably into the hall, yelling to the caller to hang on a sec as the knocking begins again, more impatient now, if that were possible.

When he sees that his visitor is Elijah, Andy is more than slightly taken aback.  Sighing, he opens the door and, just for a moment, is thrown even more off-balance by the warmth of Elijah’s shy smile.

“Hi,” Elijah says, hands in the pockets of his jeans.  “I was just passing...”

Andy knows that Elijah’s lying, and knows that Elijah has clocked the fact that Andy’s aware of his dalliance with the truth.  To be “just passing” Andy’s house would take quite a feat of perambulatory engineering on Elijah’s part.  But at least Elijah now has the grace to blush.  Andy folds his arms and leans against the door jam, crossing one ankle over the other.  “So what can I do for you, young Elwood?”  He knows Elijah wants to be invited in, but he’s damned if he’s going to actually say the words Elijah wants to hear.

Elijah shrugs.  “Just wondered if you wanted to hang out?”

Andy’s heart sinks.  “Hanging out” is something kids of Elijah’s age do with each other – not with men old enough to be their fathers.  Although granted, Elijah is _not_ your “ordinary” kid – not by a long chalk.

“’Hang out’?” Andy repeats.  He catches Elijah staring at the way his folded arms make his biceps bulge and sighs inwardly.  “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

Elijah’s bright smile falters.  “Well – I know things have been a bit freaky on set lately...I – thought maybe you wanted to talk about it?”

Andy sighs out loud this time.  It’s actually the _last_ thing he wants to do on his day off.  But on reflection, he concedes that Elijah’s right:  on a project the size of **_The Lord of the Rings_** no personality clashes and hiccups can be allowed to fester for fear of spreading the infection and there’s something in the air at the moment that needs to be faced up to and dealt with before it sours everything.

He straightens up, but keeps his arms folded – defensively? – across his chest.  He fixes Elijah with his intense blue eyes and jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen.  “You’d better come in,” he says flatly.  “Follow me...  This way,” Andy continues, his voice growing fainter as he heads for the kitchen.

He doesn’t wait to see if Elijah is following him.  He knows he _will_ be.

And Elijah obeys, trotting obediently across the threshold and following Andy meekly, closing the door behind them. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

When Elijah rejoins Andy in the kitchen, the older man is already reaching into the fridge.  “Can of beer?” he asks, voice muffled in its depths.  Then he reappears, voice cautious and pointed as he fixes Elijah with a gimlet eye.  “Or perhaps it should be Coke or L&P for you, boy.”

Andy takes a can of Stella and a can of L&P from the shelf and makes a pantomime of holding out each in turn to the younger man before finally he slides the L&P back into the milk pocket, slams shut the fridge door and then casually lobs the can of lager in Elijah’s direction.  Elijah, still unsettled, fumbles the catch but regains his composure with commendable speed.

“Better not open that just yet,” Andy cautions him wryly as he retrieves his own can of Stella and settles back down in the rocking chair, resting his feet once more on the small pile of paperbacks he’s using as a foot-stool.  “It’ll be a bit frisky.”

Elijah says nothing, but pulls across one of the dining chairs and places it at an angle, matching the position of Andy’s chair.  He sits down on it and stares nervously at Andy; their chairs are barely feet away from each other, but for now they might as well be separated by a million miles.  Elijah opens his can of lager, tensing and grimacing as he waits to be showered with beer and then relaxing as nothing more than the rich, clean smell hits him.

Andy eyes Elijah coolly from behind his now-warm can of lager, taking in the tight, fashionably scruffy jeans and the baggy Radiohead t-shirt, the spiky halo of dark hair, enormous bush-baby eyes, and bitten-down nails.  The young man is fidgety and ill at ease and looks for all the world like a badly-dressed novice annunciating angel out on his first gig and about to make a complete dog’s breakfast of it.

Andy is not to be disappointed.

Not lifting his eyes from Andy’s wiggling toes, Elijah takes a deep breath.  “I think we should talk, Andy,” he says – then throws back his head and pours a generous mouthful of beer past his teeth as though he doesn’t yet wish to say any more.

Andy takes another gulp of blood-temperature Stella Artois and nods.  “ _I_ think we should, too.”  He notices that Elijah’s skin is faintly red, over-kissed by the sun, and perhaps by his rapid ingestion of beer, and his eyes seem unnaturally bright against the puffy black hollows beneath them.  Christ, he could almost swear that the kid has been crying.  Again, Andy sighs inwardly.  He knows why Elijah’s here and why he wants to talk; and yet while he knows that it’s important that they do, something in him is reluctant, and for once he just wants to pretend nothing is happening.

But Andy also knows that he can be a contrary fucker.  Perhaps that’s why _he_ wants to be the one who starts the conversation in earnest – but all the same, he’s glad when Elijah clears his throat and croaks out a feeble, nervous giggle that he hasn’t been expecting, but welcomes all the same.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Elijah says shyly, fixing Andy with nervous, deer-in-headlights eyes.

Andy shrugs his shoulders gently.  “I think you do.  And I don’t think you owe just _me_ an apology, it’s also PJ and everyone else on set.  Your behaviour has been highly inappropriate, Elijah – and fucking unprofessional.  Above all, I think it’s your unprofessional behaviour that pisses me off the most – the way you’re showing disrespect to me, your fellow actors, and, if I may say so, most of all to yourself.”

As he speaks, Andy watches Elijah’s face pale and his eyes turn glassy as he tries not to cry.  For a moment he feels like a complete and utter cunt for treating Elijah like this, but what else can he do?  At first he was _flattered_ when it became clear that Elijah had a huge, honest-to-god crush on him – but now that things have got out of hand, it’s making him uncomfortable.

He can cope with the doe-eyed looks, the blushes, the coyly-lowered eyes, and all the other smitten behaviours; what he _can’t_ cope with is the way that Elijah seems constantly to be pushing the envelope when it comes to expressing his affection.  He can’t cope with the over-exuberant hugs and oh-so-casual strokes of his thighs and arse and back in the guise of mateyness and the way Elijah wriggles against him when they rehearse the Shelob’s Lair fight scene, making sure that Andy can feel the growing hardness of his cock as he straddles Andy’s muscular thighs with his own skinny ones.

Is he imagining it?  _No_.  The jokes and laughing comments from PJ amongst others make it quite clear that he’s not imagining it.  He’s ribbed about it constantly, in fact – and when the atmosphere on set is good, he doesn’t mind.  But Sean Astin is growing increasingly tetchy with Elijah over his infatuation, telling him to get his “shit together and act like a mature, responsible professional instead of a love-struck puppy”.  Andy always winces at this – though when he’s not in the mood, his sympathies lie with Sean, rather than Elijah.

Even so, he puts up with it willingly, like the genial fellow he is.  And on the surface Andy tries to pretend that he’s perfectly okay about what Elijah’s showing.

_But he isn’t._

He looks again at Elijah’s lowered eyes and feels guilty about coming down so hard on the boy – but he knows it has to be done.  Elijah has to be made aware that this can’t continue for the sake of good relations on set.  Not to mention that he’s uneasy about such unabashed adoration from the younger actor – not least because there’s a level at which, despite Andy’s rebuttals in his conscious mind, he’s actually enjoying the attention.  And it’s _this_ that unsettles him most because he doesn’t like to confront the fact that maybe there’s some part of him that would like to respond to Elijah’s come-ons and blandishments.

Sighing inwardly, Andy looks across at Elijah, fascinated by the contrast of the innocent, wide-eyed boy with the sexually voracious creature who’s shagged his way through the cast and crew with a vigour and enthusiasm that leaves everyone breathless.  What _would_ it be like to fuck Elijah, he wonders, staring at the long column of the boy’s throat as he gulps down more beer and immediately the image of him swallowing something else comes into Andy’s mind.

If Lorraine was still here, this wouldn’t be an issue; he’d have someone to keep him company, someone to sleep beside at night, someone to reassure him – someone to _love_.  But she’s back in London, and Andy’s not going to think too hard about how much it hurts to be without her.  And he’s too proud to acknowledge the idea that he might not be quite as invulnerable to the loneliness as he thinks he is.  But he won’t be another notch on Elijah’s bedpost, or wherever it was people carved notches to mark sexual conquests these days.  He knows he’s too strong for that.

Granted, part of him that knows he’s not entirely indifferent to the idea of shagging Elijah Wood, should the opportunity ever arise in the future.  He’s not a complete stranger to same-sex liaisons – there had been some adolescent fumbling at his single-sex high school, a few near-misses at Uni, and a few experiences during his early theatre days, and he wouldn’t be averse to giving Elijah what Andy knows he wants.  Not just because Andy’s lonely and prone to desperate feelings of need and desire he can’t quench with wanking alone, but also because the boy’s geeky quirkiness and enthusiastic “out-there”-ness make him as adorable as fuck.  Also, if he thinks about what’s on offer from Elijah, the image of himself spreading Elijah’s naked arse cheeks and fucking him into the bed, one hand grasping the boy’s hair viciously and the other slapping Elijah’s arse, is very appealing.  Something about Elijah’s submissiveness brings out a desire in Andy to fuck him long and hard and rough.

But no, Andy prides himself on ultimately being invulnerable to Elijah’s charms and fey sexual appeal.  _He_ won’t fall into the same trap as those far more needy than himself on this set and embark on a sexual liaison with someone so completely inappropriate.  He’s in a rock-steady relationship with a partner he worships as a goddess for having borne him two beautiful children and he’s not about to waste his energies on a horny young man who happens to have a crush on him that’s the size of the Isle of Wight...

...But Andy Serkis is a good – if lapsed – Catholic boy, and he knows that Pride is one of the seven deadly sins; that it’s pride which ultimately sealed the fate of Lucifer and saw him cast down from Heaven.

...And later, when despite all his confidence in his strength of character his defences have been shattered by Elijah’s eyes and mouth on him and he’s lost; when his cock is buried up to the hilt in Elijah’s willing arse and he’s sweating and swearing as he fucks the younger actor with a roughness and brutality that has Elijah bucking back at him and yelling with a delight and enthusiasm which serves only to spur Andy on:  it’s then that Andy realises with a shocking, shaming clarity, that just as Lucifer fell, so he too is falling...

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *


End file.
